Going with the Flow
by merduff
Summary: Someone had to use the other ticket. A road trip story without the road. Complete with DVD extras.
1. Going with the Flow

It was House's idea to go away. That in itself was surprising. House hadn't willingly taken a vacation for nearly three years, if one excluded conferences, which he treated as an excuse to lounge around in hotel rooms charging room service to his expense account while he was supposed to be attending — or giving — lectures.

What was even more surprising was that he invited Wilson to join him. They had gone on trips together before — weekends in Atlantic City and Vegas, one disastrous vacation in Hawaii with Stacy and Bonnie, the occasional road trip to catch a baseball game — but it had been nearly two years since they'd done even that.

Wilson had spent his last few vacations exploring various European cities with his wife, visiting art galleries and museums and taking long walks in parks while she shopped. But there would be no more trips with Julie, unless a visit to the lawyer's or the courthouse office counted. He had four weeks of vacation time owed him, but he couldn't imagine going anywhere on his own.

"I'm blowing this popsicle stand," House said on Tuesday evening as they sat on the couch, side by side, watching _Blackadder_. Wilson had made chili for dinner with corn bread he'd baked on the weekend and tall, frosted glasses of beer to help put out the fire. There was enough left in the pot to keep them — or at least House — in lunches for the rest of the week. House had grunted his approval and gone back for seconds, so Wilson thought his salads might actually be safe.

"As in taking a vacation or skipping town one step ahead of the law?" Wilson asked. "If you're leaving for good, can I have the apartment?" It would save him looking for a place of his own.

"Vacation. And you're coming with me. We're taking off Thursday morning."

Wilson glanced sideways to see if House was serious. House was staring resolutely at the television screen, instead of watching Wilson's reaction like a hawk tracking its prey. "Are we talking about a weekend getaway or a fresh start in the Witness Protection Program?"

"Something in between," House replied. He turned and glared at Wilson. "And I'm only inviting you because I don't trust you here alone. You'd sleep in my bed and get your hair products all over my pillows. And then you'd go through my closet and throw out my clothes, or worse, repair them."

"Properly hemmed pants would be a tragedy," Wilson murmured, making a note to shorten all of House's pants to flood length the next time his lunch mysteriously disappeared or he was locked out of the apartment for hours. "And as heartfelt as that invitation was, I think I'll pass."

"You can't pass on a road trip," House exclaimed. "What kind of best friend are you?"

"One who would like to live out his days in peaceful retirement, rather than dying in a fiery crash." Though House was, all things considered, a good driver. Not as cautious as Wilson would like, but surprisingly controlled. "Not to mention one who actually maintains a caseload of more than a single patient at any given time. I can't just take off on a whim."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Jimmy?" House taunted.

"Lagging a couple of miles behind my sense of responsibility," Wilson replied. "Have a nice trip, though. Be sure to write. I'll try not to get crumbs in your sheets."

House didn't respond, and while Wilson knew better than to think he had abandoned the idea, there was a good chance House would be distracted by a new case before Thursday. He made a note to check the ER charts first thing in the morning.

But nothing came up on Wednesday, and in the afternoon Wilson discovered that "someone" had cleared his schedule for the next week and submitted a vacation request to Cuddy on his behalf.

"I think it would be good for you to get away," she said when he dropped by her office to ask why she'd taken him off-call. "You've had a rough time of it lately. You could use the time off."

Wilson wondered whether she was talking about the divorce or living with House. Both situations had wrought havoc on his emotional reserves. Julie's infidelity had drained him of confidence and filled him with confusion and guilt, while living with House was nerve-wracking and exhausting. He was grateful to House for taking him in, but he knew he couldn't stay on House's couch indefinitely. Either his back or his sanity would give out before long.

"I have too much to do right now," he protested feebly. "Maybe next month, after the budget reviews."

"Your budgets are fine, and you know that. Take the time now and enjoy it. Things will look different when you get back."

That seemed optimistic to Wilson. He would still be on his third divorce when he returned, still homeless and living out of a suitcase. He puffed out a bitter laugh. At least he wouldn't have to worry about packing.

"I'm having the locks on your office door changed if you don't agree to take some time," Cuddy threatened. It was a weak threat — Wilson had known House long enough to have learned how to pick a lock — but she followed it up with a pleading look that left him defenceless. "God knows what House has planned, but I'll feel better if you're along to keep an eye on him."

"That's a low blow," Wilson complained. "And what makes you think I can keep either of us out of trouble? Do you remember our last trip? We nearly drowned."

"So don't go near water." Cuddy stood up and walked around her desk. "Go. Have fun. Let off some steam. Just try not to get arrested." She led him to the door and pushed him out gently. "The budgets will still be there when you get back."

The budgets would be there, and the charts, and the clinical trials, and the paper he was presenting at a conference in June that needed revisions. There was no end of work waiting for him, which was why he couldn't even think about taking a long weekend, much less a full week off. He knew his staff were capable of looking after everything in his absence, but he normally spent days organizing his workload and delegating tasks and patient care before leaving for a conference or vacation. If House was serious about taking off on Thursday morning, he only had a few hours to set things in order.

It was past eleven before Wilson decided he'd done all he could. He'd spoken with his senior attendings and forwarded detailed case notes on the patients they were covering, approved the staffing schedules for the coming week, and cleared his inbox of the most urgent messages. He left five pages of instructions for his assistant, each one prefaced with, "Call me if you need anything," but he knew she wouldn't.

House probably hadn't even told his team that he wouldn't be in the next day. Wilson thought about forwarding his cell phone number to them, but Cuddy knew how to get in touch if there was an emergency.

Once he'd left the hospital and abandoned himself to whatever insanity House had in store for them, Wilson relaxed. There came a point, in any of House's schemes, where it was easier just to go with the flow. One of the first things he'd learned in water safety was that fighting the current was a sure way to drown. Of course, getting sucked out to sea wasn't much of a better option.

Unsurprisingly the lights were still on — and the television blaring — when Wilson arrived at the apartment. House was a nocturnal creature, by inclination and pathology, and Wilson often woke in the early hours of the morning to find House crouched close to the set, the sound turned low, light and shadow flickering across his face.

"You're late," House said, not even turning his head to look at him. "I had to make dinner myself."

Wilson glanced at the empty bowl on the coffee table, remnants of chili crusting its rim. "How inconsiderate of me. You must have spent minutes in front of the microwave." He grabbed the bowl and detoured to the kitchen, dumping it in the sink. It was House's day on dishes, and he refused to do anything more than soak the dried food off. He'd eaten at the hospital, so he grabbed two beers from the fridge and returned to the living room, kicking at House's ankle until he moved over to let him sit on the couch.

"This is how it started with your wives, isn't it?" House glanced at Wilson, his eyes bright with unholy glee as he snatched one of the beers. "You come home late, you don't call. Are you cheating on me already?"

A month ago, with Julie's infidelity and his own neglect still raw, the words would have drawn blood, but now it was barely a pinprick. Or perhaps he'd just grown a thicker callus. "Yes," he said. "I'm spending time in another kitchen. One with four working burners on the stove and copper cookware. I'm sorry, but you just can't satisfy all my needs."

House didn't smile — that would have given away too much — but his cheek twitched and he leaned back into the couch. "Did you tuck in all the little cueballs and explain to them that Doctor Jimmy would rather hit the road than look after them?"

Wilson thought briefly of Adam Rincon, who might not live a week, and wondered how he had allowed himself to be manoeuvred into this position. "This is a bad idea," he said. "It's not a good time to go away." Even if his appointments were rescheduled he could still do rounds and research new clinical trials. He could at least be there if something went wrong.

"It's never going to be a good time for you to go away," House argued. "You're more obsessed with your patients than I am. But if you're worried about Glioma Boy kicking it, his latest labs showed improvement, and the rest of your patients are taking their time about dying."

"You went through my patient files?" But of course House had gone through his files. He probably knew each patient's status as well as Wilson did.

House ignored the protest, obviously recognizing it for the rhetorical question it was. "I'll let you bring your laptop with you. And you can read up to three articles or studies each day. I wouldn't want you to go cold turkey."

"Kind of you," Wilson murmured. "Why are you so set on this? I would have thought you'd be sick of the sight of me by now." And yet, as much as he wanted to strangle House most of the time, he couldn't imagine a day without House driving him crazy. It was the only thing that kept him sane.

"Someone's gotta pay for the hotel room," House replied, gaze fixed deliberately on the TV screen.

Wilson was glad House didn't see the flash of disappointment he couldn't quite suppress. Of course House only wanted him around for his bank account. "Why don't I just give you my American Express card? I wouldn't want to cramp your solitary style."

"Who will use the other ticket, then?" House asked. "I'm not sitting next to a stranger."

Wilson frowned. "I thought this was a road trip. You're planning on flying?"

"Not a plane ticket, moron." House pulled a pair of tickets out of an envelope on the coffee table, waving them in Wilson's face. "Devils vs. the Habs."

"We're driving to East Rutherford? It's only an hour away." It didn't seem like much of a road trip, but if that was the case maybe he could manage a few hours at the hospital on Thursday before they left. He could do morning rounds at least.

"It's not a home game," House said impatiently. He stopped waving the tickets long enough for Wilson to read the information.

"The Canadiens? In Montreal?" Wilson remembered going to games when he was an undergrad at McGill: lining up for cheap standing-room tickets, getting buzzed on even cheaper recycled beer at the Peel Street Pub before the game, and jostling for position against the railings. There had been something sacred about watching hockey in the old Montreal Forum, the smell of stale beer and sweat wafting like incense, the bilingual baiting of the referees and opposition a profane liturgy.

"It's not the Forum," House said, reading his mind, "but it'll have to do."

"How did you get these?" Canadiens games were perennially sold out, though Wilson knew blocks of single tickets were released on the 15th of each month. But that would mean House had been planning this for weeks.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," House replied. "And then I'd be stuck sitting next to some cretin who thinks _joual_ passes for actual communication."

Wilson made a note to mix _joual_ into conversations at every opportunity. It wouldn't take him long to slip back into the speech patterns and pronunciations. "I'm not crossing a border with you," he said. "You'll say something to piss off a customs official and we'll get strip searched."

"That only happened once," House protested. "And the only reason we were taken aside was because you felt so guilty about that extra bottle of rum you tried to smuggle in duty free that they thought we actually did have something to hide."

"No, they strip searched us because you told them I was a drug mule." It was a slight exaggeration. The customs officer had only threatened to strip search them. They'd brought the dogs out, though, and ransacked their suitcases, even after Wilson had broken down and admitted to the second bottle.

"I told them you were _my_ drug mule. You didn't want me to lie, did you? That would have just made things worse."

"I prescribe legal painkillers to you; I don't smuggle illicit drugs over the border."

"Please. Are you telling me you didn't pick up some BC Bud for your patients the last time you were in Vancouver? Isn't that why they schedule oncology conferences there?"

The thought had crossed Wilson's mind, but he wasn't reckless enough to act on it. Especially since he had a flag on his passport thanks to House. "I'm gagging you before we cross into Canada," he warned.

"That won't raise any suspicions," House replied. He was smiling, which made _Wilson_ suspicious. House and happiness were a dangerous combination.

He looked at the tickets again. Lower level, third row — close enough to see faces smashed against the glass on a hard check to the boards. That in itself would be enough to make House smile. Then he saw the date. "The game's not until Tuesday. Are you planning on walking to Montreal?"

House leaned forward and grabbed something else off the table. "I thought we'd go by way of Boston." He handed another pair of tickets to Wilson. Red Sox vs. the Mariners on Friday night. "Schilling's pitching," House said. "We can mock him when he preens for the cameras. And I can mock you for knowing all the words to 'Sweet Caroline'."

"Everybody there will know the words to 'Sweet Caroline'," Wilson pointed out. He hummed a few bars and decided to practice singing it with a _québecois_ accent. It would pass the time in the car. He wondered exactly how much time they would be spending in the car. "So," he said casually. "Boston on Friday and Montreal on Tuesday. Anywhere else in between?"

"Two games not enough for you?" House asked. "Greedy bastard."

Wilson knew he was just teasing, but he still felt guilty. House had a finger permanently pressed on that button. "No," he said quickly. "I was just wondering how much money I owe you in total for the tickets. I should probably pay up before the lawyers start siphoning away my bank account."

But House just waved a hand dismissively. "Forget it," he said. "You cover accommodation, I'll cover entertainment, and we'll split gas and food."

House's idea of splitting didn't necessarily mean 50/50, but Wilson still thought he was getting a deal. "When did you want to get to Montreal?"

"I thought we could maybe drive north through Maine," House said casually. "Stop outside Portland for the night and then head up to Quebec City."

Wilson wondered briefly whether he could get a last-minute reservation at the Château Frontenac and then backtracked to the earlier part of House's suggestion. The direct route to Montreal would take them through Vermont. Even going to Quebec City made more sense if they took the I-93 north. Detouring through Portland would add at least two hours to the journey. As far as Wilson knew, House didn't have any connection to Maine, and Wilson had only been to Portland once, for an interdisciplinary health conference at the University of New England. He remembered telling House about the "Maine Italian" sandwiches at Amato's and the jacket he'd bought at the original L.L. Bean store in Freeport.

House was more than capable of driving two hours out of his way for a sandwich, but Wilson also remembered that the jacket had gone missing not long after Wilson had taken refuge in House's apartment. House had denied having anything to do with the disappearance, but Wilson knew this was his way of admitting guilt. House wouldn't pay for a replacement jacket, and there was an L.L. Bean outlet store less than an hour away in Flemington, but that didn't matter; it was the gesture that was important with House.

Wilson thought about tickets and detours and rescheduled appointments. House had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this trip. "What's going on?" he asked, even though he knew House would manufacture a dozen evasions before he let slip the truth.

"Nothing's going on," House replied. "Can't a person do something nice for his best buddy?"

"A person could," Wilson agreed, "but not you. You don't believe in altruism. I'm just wondering where the body is you need me to help bury."

"If you're going to be that ungrateful, you can stay here and brood over your pathetic life and your dying patients."

It was as much of an answer as House would be likely to give, but Wilson decided to push a little harder. He should have been tired after working a 16-hour shift, but he was hyperalert and restless, the last cup of coffee having finally kicked in, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep until he wound down a little. An argument with House would be sure to exhaust him. "I'm just curious," he said mildly. "You must have been planning this for days, maybe weeks. Why wait until the last minute to tell me about it? What if I'd made other plans?"

"You mean another dinner with Stacy?"

Wilson winced. House was never going to forgive him for ditching that monster truck rally — and then lying about a speaking engagement — to meet with Stacy Warner. If he had known what that dinner would lead to, he would have erased Stacy's message from his voicemail, changed his number, and sent her a postcard to say that he'd joined the Peace Corps. "I'm sure Cameron would love to watch a hockey game with you," he replied. Backing down was never the safe course with House. A lack of defence only encouraged him to attack harder.

House grimaced. "I doubt Cameron knows who the Habs are. I suppose having you along would be slightly less painful than trying to explain ice hockey to her."

"_Why are they hitting each other_?" Wilson mimicked in his best whiny falsetto. "_That's not very sportsmanlike_. Seriously," he added when House started to sputter with laughter. "Is there something I should know?"

House rolled his eyes. "I'm not dying, if that's what you're worried about."

And of course that thought had crossed Wilson's mind. House's Vicodin intake had evened out after spiking in the wake of Stacy's departure, even dropped recently, but House had been abusing his body for as long as Wilson had known him, and it was only a matter of time before something gave out. House wasn't the type to soften bad news with an act of kindness, but he wasn't the type to act in kindness either. Wilson wondered whether _he_ was dying.

"Though, really, we're all dying," House mused, reading Wilson's mind like the nosy bastard he was. "But not in the next week. Unless we go out in a fiery crash on the Interstate. Which is unlikely since we're taking your car and you have every safety feature known to man."

"You're not going to answer my question, are you?" Wilson wasn't sure why he had even asked. "You enjoy seeing me squirm while I wait for the other shoe to drop."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'm not going to answer your question, whatever it was. And yes, I enjoy seeing you squirm. It's way more interesting than counting mile markers." House changed the channel to a late-night talk show. "Passover started tonight. Think of it as your own mini-Exodus from Cuddy's slavery."

"Right. Because Egypt and clinic duty are synonymous."

"You mean crotch rot isn't the eleventh plague?" A commercial came on and House started flicking through the channels restlessly. "What kind of Jew are you anyway? Shouldn't you have had Seder with your family tonight?"

It had been his turn to host the Passover Seder, but those plans had died along with his marriage. Wilson's parents had booked a last-minute Passover cruise to Central and South America instead, and Wilson had put the holiday out of his mind. There was no point in thinking about what he couldn't have. "You're just pissed because you didn't get the charity invite this year," he said.

"Damn right," House replied. "Your mother makes a mean matzoh." He settled on the sports highlights. "Thank god your bubbe is dead," he added, wincing as an outfielder crashed into the wall in pursuit of a Yankees fly ball. "It would break her heart to know you worked well past sunset."

"My bubbe was overjoyed to have a hard-working doctor for a grandson. And she would have disinherited me if I'd dared to call her 'bubbe'." A new idea occurred to him and he cocked his head to the side. "Are we leaving tomorrow so that you can stop me from working on the first day of Passover? Are you trying to make me a better Jew?"

House looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, which meant he was at least partly correct. "No, I'm saving us from driving into Boston on Good Friday and getting caught behind a convoy of Catholics."

For an atheist, House had a surprising knowledge of high holidays, at least those ones that would give him an excuse to miss work. Wilson had forgotten it was the Easter long weekend as well, which meant there hadn't been that many appointments for House to reschedule after all. That made him feel slightly less guilty about leaving town. Of course, finding a hotel room in Boston was going to be a nightmare. He got up and retrieved his laptop from beside the door.

"What are you doing?" House asked, tearing his gaze away from the television set long enough to stare suspiciously at Wilson.

"Finding a hotel. I'm not wandering the streets hoping for a room in the inn."

"Wrong holiday. You'll never pass as a Christian at this rate." House smiled smugly. "And I already booked us a place in Boston. But don't worry, it's held on your credit card."

Wilson made a note to change his card numbers and have all his mail forwarded to a post office box. "Which hotel?" he asked.

"The Hyatt."

It was a cut above the type of accommodation House normally booked, but then Wilson was paying. If it had been on House's dime, they probably would have been sleeping in a stable. Wilson found the address and opened another browser window.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Looking for the directions to the hotel. If Moses had used MapQuest, the Israelites would never have wandered forty years in the desert."

"Real men don't need directions," House scoffed, but he leaned over to look. "If we leave by eight we can make it to Boston for lunch."

Wilson didn't know what was harder to believe: that House would be willing to drive straight through to Boston or that he would be up before eight. It occurred to him that House was actually excited about the trip. It was the first time he'd seen House take an interest in anything other than a patient — or his usual persecution of all and sundry — since Stacy had left. Maybe putting Esther to rest had let him escape more than one demon.

Wilson was still on his laptop, planning routes and looking for hotels, when House finally got bored with late-night television. "You're taking the first driving shift," he warned Wilson. "You might want to get some rest."

That meant Wilson would be driving the entire way while House napped in the passenger seat. He glanced at his watch. He could still get six hours sleep before he needed to get up in the morning. "Night, House," he said. "I'll drag your lazy ass out of bed in time for you to shower, if not shave." He heard House pause outside the bedroom.

"Night, Wilson," he said, his voice fading as he closed the door behind him. "Next year in Jerusalem."

Wilson smiled. "Next year in Jerusalem," he said softly and started a new search.


	2. DVD extras

**Five Things House and Wilson did on their vacation  
**  
**1) Baby You Can Drive My Car (I-91)**

Somewhere between New Haven and Hartford, House opened his eyes and stretched, groaning when every muscle creaked in protest. He glanced around and took stock of his surroundings. Anonymous interstate. Wilson driving, his jacket off and sleeves rolled up. Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations on the stereo. House frowned.

"What the hell are you listening to?" he demanded.

"Good morning to you, too. And you gave me the CD."

House loved to listen to Gould grunt and hum as he played, but not driving down the I-91 on the first day of his vacation. "Put on something with a better beat," he demanded.

"It's my car and I'm driving, so I get to pick the music."

House pressed an imaginary button on the centre of the dashboard. "Bzzzt. Wrong. That would be an acceptable answer for someone with any kind of taste, but you are so bland you make porridge seem spicy."

"Again, your CD. And we've been listening to my music for nearly three hours. You didn't seem to mind it before."

"I wasn't conscious before. Your taste in music is so boring, it put me to sleep." House would never admit it, but he had actually found the selections soothing as he floated in a state of half-sleep.

"Maybe I'm boring and bland, but I'm also considerate. But now that you're awake, I'll need something a little louder to drown out the sound of your whining." Wilson took the iPod out of the dock and held it in his line of sight, clicking and spinning until he found what he wanted.

It took a few seconds, but House recognized the first song that blared out of the speakers. "'Life is a Highway?' Are you kidding me?" He clicked back a category. "_Road trip_. You stayed up for hours making playlists before we left, didn't you?" Wilson had still been awake when he'd gone to bed, and he did look tired. House almost considered offering to drive, but shook that insanity loose. Shotgun was a much preferable position.

"If you don't like my music, you drive and I can complain."

It sometimes worried House that their minds often moved on parallel lines. He liked to think of himself as unique. "Hello? Cripple here. I need to stretch out."

Wilson looked as though he was about to protest, so House made a show of wincing, and Wilson's mouth snapped shut.

"Take the next exit," he ordered, smiling to himself when Wilson signalled for the off-ramp without question.

"Do you need to walk about?" he asked, looking slightly concerned, though not enough to piss House off.

"Pee break." He didn't actually have to go to the bathroom, but Wilson was susceptible to the power of suggestion, which would give him time to load up on junk food. "Go ahead," he said when Wilson pulled into the first gas station. "I'll loosen up first."

Wilson would whine about crumbs in his upholstery, but it was a long drive to Boston still, and if Wilson bitched, House could just turn up the volume.

**2) Take Me Out to the Ballgame (Boston, Massachusetts)**

"You can get sushi at Safeco Field in Seattle," House mumbled through a mouthful of food. He had insisted that Wilson hunt down a vendor before the seventh inning stretch and was now stuffing his face with peanuts and Cracker Jack.

Wilson wasn't sure where House managed to pack it all away. He'd already scarfed down two Fenway Franks, fries, popcorn – though most of that had been thrown at people who annoyed him – and four beers. And that didn't count two hours of eating and drinking in Yawkey Way before the game. Wilson was just glad they'd announced last call, because getting House down the bleacher stairs in a crowd was already going to be a nightmare.

"What kind of ballpark food is that?" House continued, spitting a piece of shell into Wilson's beer. "No wonder the Mariners have never made it to the World Series."

Wilson had only been to Seattle once during baseball season, but he had thought the concessions were the best part of the game. "The garlic fries are unbelievable there," he replied, his mouth starting to water at the memory. He fished the shell out of his beer, flicking it at House's face, and took a deep gulp. "And have you seen some of the things you can get here now? They're selling daiquiris in the Big Concourse." He stood up and clapped as Johjima struck out swinging for the second out.

House shifted uncomfortably and stretched out his leg. "Who did they design these seats for? Concentration camp refugees? How are you squeezing your fat ass in there?"

Wilson ignored him and watched the next Mariner ground out to end the inning. "Three up, three down," he said. "That will be it for Schilling. Six strike-outs. Three hits."

"He's a dick, but he can pitch," House admitted grudgingly. He groaned when the loudspeaker blared. "Oh god, here we go."

"Why can't you just live in the moment?" Wilson retorted while the introduction played. He sang along energetically, shouting "so good, so good, so good" and pumping his fist with the crowd.

House rolled his eyes, but he was singing by the second chorus, and when the song was over Wilson slipped away to buy him some cotton candy as a reward.

**3) There's Nothing Like a Real Italian (Portland and Freeport, Maine)**

It was late morning by the time they pulled into Portland and House's stomach was rumbling. He'd chosen to skip breakfast in favour of an extra half hour of sleep – though he'd made it down to the dining room in time to steal Wilson's last piece of toast – and he was starving.

"I'm hungry," he announced, because sometimes Wilson failed to pick up on the obvious. "I want lobster."

"We're not having lobster for lunch," Wilson protested.

"But we're in Maine. You have to eat lobster in Maine." He tried pouting, but Wilson was dividing his attention between the road and a scrap of paper balanced precariously on the steering wheel.

"We're having something better for lunch. And stop pouting. Channel your energy into looking for Congress Street instead."

"What's better than lobster? Maine lobster. In Maine." But he stared out the window, waiting until they were nearly at the intersection to tell Wilson they were at Congress Street. Unfortunately, Wilson had already seen the sign and merged safely into the left lane.

"You are the world's worst navigator," Wilson complained, though he was too busy looking for parking to accompany it with his signature glare.

House felt mildly cheated. He only kept Wilson around for his facial expressions. "I can't navigate if you don't tell me where we're going," he pointed out.

But Wilson was pulling into a small lot, frowning as he read the restrictions. "Come on," he said. "We've only got fifteen minutes." He led them into a small storefront restaurant and House's stomach rumbled again when he realized they were at Amato's, home of the original Italian sandwich.

They both ordered large Real Italians – House with double meat and cheese – Moxie sodas, and Humpty Dumpty potato chips. House was salivating before they were out the door.

"You're not eating that in my car," Wilson warned, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously, as if he expected the fixings to explode through the paper wrapping. "We'll be in Freeport in twenty minutes. You can eat it there."

House pouted again, but settled for eating Wilson's chips and drinking half his soda. He rolled his eyes when they pulled up in front of the L.L. Bean outlet store. "You are such a yuppie wannabe," he said. "The Volvo. L.L. Bean. You were born 20 years too late."

"It was your idea to come here," Wilson reminded him. "Go find a bench and eat your sandwich. I'll only be a few minutes."

That was about as likely as House's thigh muscle magically regenerating itself, but for the time being he was content to enjoy a rare moment of sunshine and devour his Italian in peace. He would need energy, after all, to mock Wilson's fashion sense, or lack thereof.

He bit into his sandwich and grimaced when a cascade of oily vegetables spilled onto his lap. Fortunately he knew just the place to get a new pair of pants.

**4) Lost in Translation (Quebec City, Quebec)**

As soon as they checked in to the hotel, Wilson headed for the concierge desk to ask for a city map. He formed the question perfectly, phrased politely in the subjunctive, but when he opened his mouth, the syllables slipped away. "_Je voudrais_..." He began and then paused, drawing a complete blank. "_Je voudrais un_..."

The young woman smiled encouragingly at him and he desperately wanted to impress her with his fluency in her language, but it had been years since he'd spoken French and he'd never been that fluent to begin with.

"_Je voudrais_..." he tried again, the right word tantalizingly just out of reach. "_Je voudrais_ a map of the city," he finally stuttered out, defeated.

House snorted and the concierge's smile dimmed slightly as she unfolded a tourist map.

"Here you are, sir," she said, in perfect, unaccented English. She marked an X on the map. "This is where the hotel is. Is there any place in particular you would like to go?"

"Could you tell me where we can find some of that world-famous _putain _of yours," House drawled obnoxiously. "I hear you have the best in the country."

"_Poutine_," Wilson corrected quickly. "He meant _poutine_." But House never said anything he didn't mean.

House's cheeks dimpled briefly. "I hope we don't have to go too far because _je suis tres faim_."

"Stop it, House," Wilson hissed. "It's _j'ai faim_ and you know it."

But the concierge was smiling broadly again and she leaned towards House, pushing the map closer to him. "You can try some at Chez Ashton," she said, tracing a route with her fingernail. "But I recommend one of the _casse-croûtes_. You can find one on most street corners in this neighbourhood." She glanced at Wilson, her eyes dancing with laughter. "_N'oubliez pas votre plan de ville_," she added, holding the map out to him. Their fingers brushed when he took it from her and he nodded dumbly, even his English gone.

"_Merci bien_," he managed finally. "_Au revoir_."

"_À bientôt_," she replied and then winked at House.

"Thank you and good bye," House teased as they walked away. "Of course that's all you know how to say in French."

"Shut up, House." _Tais toi_, he thought. _Ta gueule_. It was so much easier in his head, or after one or ten drinks.

"I think she likes me," House confided and turned to wave at the concierge. "_Je suis tres chaud_."

**5) A Smokin' Good Time (Montreal, Quebec)**

"Remind me again why we're standing outside in the cold, in the middle of the night, when there are dozens of restaurants and bars to choose from?"

"Because you can't drive all the way to Montreal and not go to Schwartz's. It's a law."

"Is that another one of those Jew laws that you've been ignoring for the past week? Is this place even kosher?"

"Do you think I care? I had clam chowder with bacon on the first day of Passover. In a bread bowl. I think it's pretty clear that I fail as a Jew."

"And yet you've dragged us out to a _Charcuterie Hebraique_. Is this a last-ditch effort to save your soul?"

"It's too late for yours. And you'll thank me for this later."

"For what? Standing around with a bunch of drunks for hours in the cold?"

"It's been less than half an hour. Trust me, it could be way worse. It could be 30 below. Celsius, not Fahrenheit. One of my roommates got frostbite waiting in line once. Though it might also have been because he passed out in a ditch on the way back to residence."

"At least he had food in his stomach. I can't believe you wouldn't let me order nachos at the bar."

"Again. You'll thank me later. See? We're in. I'll order for both of us. Two smoked meat sandwiches. One medium, one fatty. Two cherry colas. One order of French fries, coleslaw and two pickles."

"Watching your waist, Wilson?"

"The medium is for you. You're not ready for the real thing."

"Nice place. I like how they've gone all out on the furniture."

"Shut up. You love these kinds of places. And we're lucky we got two seats together."

"Right. I'm so fortunate to have you here for the Hebrew cred. G-d! Who do I have to screw to get something to eat?"

"Patience, House, patience. Good things come to those who wait."

"Were you born spouting platitudes or did you take a special class on how to make stupid, meaningless comments? And who orders cherry cola? Are you planning on going to a sock hop later?"

"_C-O-L-A cola._"

"Do. Not. Start. Singing. I'm hungry and I'm almost sober and it's bad enough I've been reduced to drinking syrupy soda without having to listen to you butcher The Kinks."

"Food's here. We hardly had to wait at all. Get your hands off my pickle. Oh, man. This is what the Israelites found when they reached the Promised Land. What do you think?"

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

"Thank. You."

"I thought so."


End file.
